


Adam, Henri and the four seasons.

by gabrielgoodman



Category: An American in Paris - Gershwin/Lucas
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielgoodman/pseuds/gabrielgoodman
Summary: Henri all but stumbles into his life. Adam's composing on the piano that's basically his own by now and the guy comes into the Café clearly in an anxious rush; Adam recognizes all the signs, and he's looking around like someone's chasing him. Adam's watching him, unimpressed, and his foot stops while his fingers halt on the keys – it's been a while since they have done that  – one eyebrow raised in silent question.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've started this before my winter semester finals and finally finished it yesterday; I meant to keep it brief and short but we see how this worked out. Naturally it took me four whole months to write it. Anyway! These sweethearts deserve a happy ending. 
> 
> Set pre-canon, in canon, and post-canon
> 
> A warning beforehand: some of this is _really_ sappy (??) because I just think they deserve warmth and sweet happiness and kisses and emotions.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not own any of those characters and no profit is made with this work of fiction. I prefer to work with original cast as far as visualization goes and it's written with the OBC in mind but choose whoever you like. And last but not least, you know the drill, it isn’t beta’d or anything and I’m no native speaker so there might be a few grammar, syntax or spelling mistakes. Feel free to adopt and take care of them.
> 
> Shhh, I mean the real four seasons not the Jersey Boys, I promise.

 

 

 

  _"And all I loved, I loved alone."_

 

**— Edgar Allen Poe**

 

 

 

{Henri smiles warmly, gently, and the sky's fading into roses and oranges and yellows and finally, a deep, dark, rich blue that's pouring itself out over the frame. The sun's gone and the Seine lays still and the evening is warm, and he's wearing wool pants and a short-sleeved button up,and he looks at Adam.}

Henri smiles. 

It's timeless.

 

 

** WINTER. **

 

When they first meet, Henri hardly speaks any English and Adam hasn't even bothered to learn the french language; he looks Jewish and poor enough to get everything for free and his leg earns him pitying glances that say more than a thousand words could, so there's no use anyway. Adam doesn't really plan on staying, he's supposed to fly back home after he's got a clean, medical bill. After more than two months he wonders if he'll ever get that or if it's just an idea, a phrase to keep the hope alive, to say, if asked, that there's been a chance but unfortunately he's been deemed irreversible. He wonders if it's an euphemism for never coming home. If the army has gotten rid off him along the way, if there's even someone left for him back across the pond. He can't really remember the last time he's seen his parents, it seems a lifetime ago.

Henri all but stumbles into his life. Adam's composing on the piano that's basically his own by now and the guy comes into the Café clearly in an anxious rush; Adam recognizes all the signs, and he's looking around like someone's chasing him. Adam's watching him, unimpressed, and his foot stops while his fingers halt on the keys – it's been a while since they have done that– one eyebrow raised in silent question. 

"What are you doing here?" He asks, and the guy turns around. He's wearing an expensive, cremé-colored coat that costs probably more than everything Adam possesses combined and the sleeves of his dress shirt are white and crisp and the sunlight filtering in through the windows casts a gleam on his polished shoes. He's rich and thus, in the wrong place. 

"What?" The rich guy asks and it sounds more like  _Watt?_ ,  rolling thickly off his tongue. He looks like a movie star.

Adam grumbles, "Ah, a French one."

"What?" Again, but more confused, "What do you mean?" 

He's got a nice voice, Adam supposes, somewhere under that accent. 

"I don't speak any French and you only speak very bad English but now that we've found ourselves in this situation," He stands up, limping over to the bar which earns him a funny look, and extends his hand, "I'm Adam."

He's not sure if the guy does actually understand what he says, but the clouded expression slowly lifts off his face, and with cheeks still flushed he accepts Adam's offered hand. He's got a firm grip and soft, warm skin unlike Adam's war-worn palm and he smells clean, manly and distinctly rosy. He's also phenomenally out of place, surrounded by cheap liquor, old wood and Adam's shabby company. 

"Henri, Henri Baurel," he answers, and lets go of Adam's hand, "You're from America?"

It doesn't necessarily sound like a question but he still nods, hopping onto the bar counter to sit opposite of a standing Henri and now they're even the same height. Satisfaction curls in Adam's stomach and he cocks his head lightly, "Yeah, I still don't know what you're doing here though."

Henri looks around the room, spots the piano and his face lights up, "Do you, uh, play?" 

He hasn't answered Adam's question yet.

"I do," he says and he doesn't really know why, exactly, while the guy's still ignoring him and hasn't bothered to order a drink to validate his stay.

"Wonderful," Henri says awestruck and walks over to the piano, his fingers caressing the polished wood and skipping over the keys lightly, like a child who's just got handed his favorite toy to him, "I sing. It's my, ah, passion."

"Sure it is," Adam comments and reaches behind him to gather a bottle of champagne and two glasses; if the guy's not leaving might as well make the best out of it and alcohol's always been Adam's favorite past time since he's been shot by a bullet and lost his friends. There's something about the way it makes everything hazy that he enjoys, and it almost stops the throbbing of his legso that he's able to walk without limping too harshly. It doesn't bring back the functionality, of course, but that's something he has to deal with for the rest of his life.

Henri plays an A flat minor scale start to finish before beginning a joyful melody he easily hums along to and Adam rolls his eyes and moves over to stop the dreadfulness of delight. Carefully sitting down next to the other man on the piano bench, mindful of at least a hand's wide between them, he puts the bottle and the glasses on the piano and then slams his hands violently on the keys. Henri jumps in his seat, and stares at him surprised. Adam raises his eyebrows and can hardly suppress another eye roll.

"Don't touch the piano without my permission," he says slowly, so it's possible that Henri understands him.

"Why? Is it –  _yours_? " Henri Baurel sounds baffled but of course he does.

"Don't think I could own one? Do I look not," Adam purses his lips in mock thoughtfulness, " _rich_ enough?"

"No, no, this is not what I, uh, said." 

" _Meant_ ," Adam corrects absentmindedly, "It's _meant_. It makes more sense." 

Henri looks at him, his eyes full of wonder, before bowing his head to stare at his fingers again; soft porcelain next to ivory next to Adam's still hands, and he's smiling but it has an edge that Adam can't quite define. He's still in his coat and by now he must have started to sweat due to the cranked up heat in the bar and his proximity to the other man but how could Adam tell; he's fine. Maybe a little uptight, but fine. That's what he tells himself daily and nightly and in every spare minute: he's fine. It's all over and he's  _fine_ ;  he just wishes he could stop shaking when no one's around to notice.

"Right," Henri says eventually, his fingertips caressing the piano keys like they're a lover, "My English is not so good, I know. I'm not used to speaking it." 

"Of course it's not," Adam agrees, "You're still learning." After all he's a French living in Paris; there shouldn't have ever been the necessity for him to learn English but since the soldiers have arrived more and more people are only able to carry business – or their guilt – by speaking the language of freedom. 

As far as Adam knows the French  invented the modern concept of Freedom. 

Anyway, he doesn't really get the guy; what is he doing here and why is he so fascinated by the piano and why the hell is he telling Adam all those things? It's not like they're friends, they've just met for the first time and still he doesn't want to leave. Maybe he has had to hide during the occupation, even though he doesn't look very jewish or like he's been in a lot of trouble, ever, in his life, but again, Adam couldn't tell for the life of his. For all he's learned, it's useless to judge a book by its cover.

Except for himself, naturally.

"Well, can you play something?" Henri asks, and Adam sighs under his breath before putting his foot on the paddle and his fingers on the right keys; then he closes his eyes and tries to remember what he's been composing all week. It's always a task – playing in front of other people, that is – but Henri seems to be genuinely interested in what Adam has to offer which is, undeniably, very new and very welcome, so he suppresses the anxiety crawling up his throat, and swallows his nerves. 

The song's still in the beginning stages and Adam's not really sure what he will do with it, there's no one to  use  it, but Henri likes it; at least he's humming along the second time Adam reprises the chorus and his foot tabs along despite the slow rhythm Adam has set for the piece. There's a soft blush high on his cheeks when Adam's finished and a small, almost smile tugging at the corners of his lips that makes him look much younger than he actually has to be. It seems that he soaks up the music.

No wonder he was so intrigued by the piano.

"So?" Adam prompts, scratching the back of his head where the hair is still impossibly short.

"Beautiful," Henri says quietly, looking up and directly into Adam's eyes, "Very, very beautiful, Adam." 

Adam can't fight the gentle laugh bubbling up, "But?" 

"But?" Henri repeats confused, irritation settling in a frown on his features, and he's still wearing that damn coat.

"You said it was beautiful but that's not all, so what else do you think?" Adam explains, resting his chin on his hand, arm propped on the piano keys, and leg stretched out beneath him because it has started to throb again. Overuse is a daily problem, because he still has to get used to this new living situation, though he doubts that there's even enough medicine in the world to numb his pain for once and all. 

Henri chuckles, color spreading brightly on his cheekbones and down his neck, "You have me there," he says, and Adam refrains from correcting him, besides he has an idea that it'll happen more often from now on anyway. 

"It's beautiful but it's so –" His jaw is clenching while he's searching for the right word; somehow it's endearing. " _Depressing_. "

"I know," Adam says, "Because it's  _ supposed _ to be. Art is  _ supposed _ to show the dark sides of life, too, you know? Open the hearts and minds of people and get them to think." 

"I don't think so," Henri responds quietly, looking down again; Adam wonders what's the deal with the guy, "Art should be happy." 

Adam wonders if Henri has ever seen any part of the war that reigns outside their doors. 

"Champagne?" He offers instead, finally taking the bottle from the piano and offering his guest a glass.

"Where did you get that from?" Henri inquires, hushed. 

"Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité." Adam shrugs and pops the champagne.

 

 

** SPRING. **

 

On the day the war ends, Henri holds his hand and sings out of the top of his lungs and dances around the café without fear in his eyes, and kisses Adam's cheek and tells him it will all be alright now. 

Adam lets him. 

 

 

** SUMMER. **

 

Freedom comes later than any of them would've thought but in August the nightmare vanishes and the Parisian streets are filled with smartly dressed people and sunny chatter; Adam finds a job at a local opera house, accompanying ballet classes, and everything else he still gets handed for free. Parisian guilt and all. Henri's almost fluent in English now and they have long and deep discussions about minor and major keys, rhythm and the importance of art, but there's always something quite off in the way Henri behaves around him – Henri, the sweet, naive Henri who's hiding something Adam can't quite grasp – and Adam can't really put his finger on it. For the most time though, he's as happy and sunny and chipper as he always has been and Adam just rolls with it.

They've been working on a night club act for the past two months (Because that's what Henri wants to be: a song and dance man. Adam refrains from being too harsh about it; after all he only has his piano skills going for him) and perform frequently in the little cafe they first met. People, young people mostly, have started to talk about them and Adam would like to keep the momentum going if it wouldn't be for Henri's dreadful parents. A guy like Henri, too rich and wealthy for his own good, does of course have strict parents who want him to take over their business in the near future but little do they know that their son, as delicate as a flower, doesn't have  _any_ kind of interest in pursuing such profession. Already thinking about it makes Adam's head hurt. 

A little over a month ago he's got clearance and a train ticket home. He wonders why he didn't go back. He told himself (and Henri for hat matter) that it's because he doesn't want to parade his leg around but God knows if there are even relatives left behind to see said leg; he's also pretty sure that that's not the only reason why he has stayed.

(Late at night, when he lays awake and can't pretend anymore, he sees Henri's eyes and hears his voice and it's unnerving and unsatisfactory and sometimes the desire to touch Henri becomes so overwhelming that he will get blackout drunk.)

It's on a late August morning that Jerry Mulligan walks into his life. He's still clad in his soldier's uniform and his French is so terrible to listen to, it pains even Adam, whose French only got a little better in the last half year. They bond immediately and it's nice to see a fresh face around and really, Jerry's got enthusiasm for three people combined so naturally him and Henri get along pretty well and light up the mood whenever Adam has a particularly rough day. Lately and admittedly, those have become more. Ever since Henri's been going on about proposing to his girlfriend, Adam has been in a sour mood but he doesn't waste too many thoughts on that subject, for the sake of his already questionable mental health and his and Henri's friendship as well as their professional partnership.

When Lise becomes a staple in all their lives, Adam's dark days brighten. She's got a way to enchant him and take his mind offwhatever bothers him at any given moment, and she's someone else, finally. Only Henri has inspired him the way she has and the music flows out of him easily; it doesn't help that Jerry is clearly interested in her too and got a much bigger chance than he has – working leg, good looks and intact American charm and all – but as long as he's got the ballet to finish that doesn't really matter. She's a vision of beauty and grace and the pieces write theirselves and Adam has never ever been luckier in his whole life before but he would rather die than tell his friends. Henri's been busy with writing his girl a proposal  _ letter _ (God help that boy quick) and as ridiculous as it sounds, there's still something off about the way he behaves around Adam. And still, he can't put a finger on it. 

The pieces fall together when all three of them are sitting in the cafe one afternoon, and Henri reveals that his mother thinks that his, as she put so eloquently, "interests lie beyond the fairer sex," and while Jerry only stares Adam can't help but almost choke on his wine. His ears start to burn suspiciously and suddenly he's reminded of those late lonely nights in his bedroom, craving a body that was neither his own nor Lise's. 

"It wouldn't sway my feelings about you one bit," he remarks but crushes the glimmer of hope in Henri's beautiful eyes in the same breath, insulting him albeit playfully as he does so often, and that's it. They don't talk about it anymore because Henri brings up his stupid letter again but even days later Adam can't stop  _thinking_ about it and it's frustrating because he doesn't know  _why_.

A week later he finds himself in a posh Parisian home of a wealthy family, promoting the ballet as well as Lise's promotion to principal ..... Or whatever, really, Adam's here because he has been booked and gets payed that's enough of a reason for him to be anywhere. When Henri greets him in the large living room, he's surprised and wonders why he, out of all people, should be here but once again it all makes sense when he reveals that the hostess is his mother. Now, Adam starts to understand why Henri is exactly the way he is and he tries his hardest to not say anything (obviously, he fails), then hopes Henri will forgive him later. He's got far worse things to worry about; Lise for example – not that she's bad or anything, she's just giving Adam a really hard time to think clearly. Or articulate. Or doing anything that doesn't involve piano playing. He doesn't need Henri going on his nerves right now. And Jerry is not helping at all either – what is he even  _doing_?  For once in his life, Adam's glad that his leg's not working.

The proposal announcement is more of a surprise than anything else and for a moment, Adam is sitting at his piano stunned, gripping his glass so tightly his knuckles start to ache. His leg is shaking and he doesn't know what to do or where to go. 

It's only on his way home that he realizes why he's so, so angry – – and _jealous_ , actually. He doesn't like the thought of Henri belonging to anyone but him one bit, what he dislikes even more is the idea of Henri marrying out of duty and not of love because God knows his heart doesn't belong to Lise, and never will.

But the thing is .... does Henri know?

 

 

*

 

 

So, Adam doesn't get the girl and neither does Henri and if Adam is honest with himself he never saw any chance for him and Lise, not with Jerry in the picture who's as suave as one can be, who's got that all star smile and grace to match. Adam has never been competition and after a while he didn't even want to be; he wanted Lise as a muse and for the music only, and he didn't care about what she did after work as long as it wasn't with Henri.

Because that's a different story. 

Anyway.

It's on a Saturday morning at the end of August, still warm enough to sleep with the windows open, that Henri knocks on his door, looking just as disheveled as he used to when he stumbled into Adam's cafe, holding a bag of roissants in one hand and his notebook in another (that's nothing particularly unusual since he's been carrying it with him everywhere) and asks Adam if they'd like to eat breakfast together.

Adam agrees because he doesn't know how to say no to Henri and matter of fact he doesn't even  _want_ to decline the French man anything, not that he could, and it has become embarrassingly hard to keep the facade up; he doesn't want to be mean to Henri, he doesn't want to insult him all the time which is more than bizarre because that's who Adam has been most of his life post war. But Henri, sweet, handsome,  _charming_ and very much male Henri, sweeps him off his feet in the most literal way, which is.  _New_.  Not bad just new but Adam has arranged himself just as he's done every time something changed, just as he's done with Jerry and with Lise and with Paris (not necessarily in that order).

It all is very frustrating. 

"Come in," Adam says and steps away from the door to allow Henri in; he's not really dressed – just a loose shirt and his pajama pants – and he doesn't miss the way Henri's cheeks start to burn as he's realizing it. 

"You cleaned," Henri notes and Adam roles his eyes. As if he would live like some uncultured swine and even so, he's got no one to clean for him like Henri has. 

Somehow, his stomach still does a funny loop at that. 

"Yeah, you know, it's what I do," he remarks shrugging, "Sit down wherever you want, I'll just change." 

Henri nods, and Adam leaves the room, mindful of the pair of eyes following his every movement. He swallows.

He puts on his usual everyday attire,consisting of a brown pair of pants and a button up of his choice (today it's the grey one because that's one that he was arsed to wash) and he tries his hardest not to think about what  _Henri_ might think about the way he dresses; it's not like he ever cared before and even more so does it  not  matter. Henri wears hideously expensive designer clothing and Adam doesn't and that's the way it is and always has been and the fact that Adam is Paris' most cherished composer hasn't changed that.

Adam would like if at least  _something_ stays the way it is. 

He's so tired of changes.

"I was so free to deck the table if that's alright with you," Henri says when Adam walks back into the main room, where his friend is already seated at mentioned table, suit jacket carefully draped over the coat rack next to Adam's door, and the table fully prepared for a breakfast consisting of various baked goods, fruits and coffee. Adam wonders where Henri got all of that from but knows better than to question, and right now he cares more about the light pink dusting of Henri's cheeks.

"Proud of yourself?" He teases as he sits down across from Henri, eyeing what's set out on the table. As Henri doesn't respond he looks up only to be met by a puzzled stare and Adam can't help but chuckle, "It's fine, thank you Henri." 

"For a moment I thought you were cross with me," Henri smiles and places a handkerchief on his thighs and Adam shakes his head a little; oh, these good manners of a beautiful boy. 

Adam huffs, "When am I ever," and takes a sip of the surprisingly tasteful coffee, strong and black, the way he likes it. 

"You got a new ballet lined up?" Henri asks after they've spent a little while eating in silence (not that that would prevent Adam from keeping his eyes fixed on the man in front of him; these days, nothing can), ripping a piece of croissant off while studying Adam's features. Despite his young age, his eyes are crinkling when he smiles and Adam considers getting drunk on this alone. 

"Hmm, yeah," he says, trying his hardest to keep the grin off his face, "The next season is about to begin, so they want me to write something new. As long as Lise's there this won't be a problem." Shrugging, he waves it off with an exaggerated hand motion and takes another sip of his coffee before looking back up again only to catch Henri still watching him. "But your mother should've told you already, shouldn't she? Such a ..... delightful person, she is. Oh by the way, how is your mother?"

Adam's not really curious and Henri's frowning, he really just likes to tease.

"My mother," Henri says, cleaning his hands on his stupidly vibrant handkerchief, "is  _ fine _ , thank you for asking. I just wanted to know what you're up to, it's been a while since we spoke personal matters."

Adam blinks, "'Since we  _ have _ spoken', Henri. That's .... The right one."

Henri huffs, "Well, if you'd ever try to learn my language that wouldn't be a problem but you Americans think the world belongs to you."

Adam's eyebrows are about to disappear into his hairline – besides that one time in the club Henri is usually not an ill-tempered person, especially not around Adam (which is just another reason why Adam loves to tease him) and especially not as easily triggered as he is right now –but the line between Henri's brows just deepens. Adam shakes his head, whispering some gibberish not even he himself can make out, and stands up to limp over to Henri, who grips the fork and knife he's now holding tight enough for his knuckles to lose a significant amount of natural colour. 

And because Adam has lost his mind a long, long time ago in the war, he gently takes Henri's hands and loosens his clenched fingers; the silverware falls onto the tabletop with a soft noise and the birds chirp outside. He kneels down despite the searing pain shooting up his leg, Henri already holding onto his hands to hoist him up again but Adam shakes his head. 

"Hey," he says, taking a deep breath, "what's up? Is it your mother?"

_Roles reserved_ , Adam thinks, it's been a while since he has had to care for anyone that wasn't his crippled, emotionally starved self and even then he wasn't as careful as he's right now.  He almost forgot about that part of his heart but Henri got a way to bring those forgotten feelings back to the surface. 

"Yeah." Henri nods and looks down onto their joined hands, "since Lise and Jerry got together she keeps telling me to find a nice girl." 

Adam tries not to draw his hands away as if he's been burned but it's a close thing; only Henri's grip keeps them where they are and his honest eyes. Suddenly, Adam is struck by how  _sad_ the younger man looks, how miserable, how utterly defeated and it's so unlike Henri that Adam almost topples over backwards.

Henri's happy. He's joyful. He's the goddamn fucking sun on Adam's darkest days and a blazing summer day on his best and it almost gets on his nerves, how  good-natured  he is, how french and perfect and beautiful he is, and above all, happy.

"But," Adam starts, trying to be smart about this topic, trying to be  _harmless_ ,  "you don't want a girl, right?"

The situation is fucked up because Adam  _knows_ that Henri is very much gay and on the other hand he wants Henri to be in love with him even though he is well aware of how unlovable he is. It's a dilemma, and an ugly one at that.

This all is a lost fucking cause.

"Promise me you won't judge?" Henri asks, biting his lip and the urge to just  kiss  him is almighty and everywhere, weighing on Adam's stupid traitor lungs and even stupider traitor heart. Why his body always has to betray him, he has know idea, maybe it's just his luck; he wouldn't be surprised at all.

"You know me," Adam says and he hopes there's a little mirth in the lazy curve of his grin, and the brown of his eyes that show Henri he's joking (is he?) and hasn't lost his mind but then again it  is  the truth because Henri (along with Jerry and Lise, but mainly Henri) is the only person who knows Adam well enough to recognize when he's faking it and when not and maybe that's dangerous but Adam lived through enough danger for three lifetimes so he doesn't mind anymore. As long as he makes it out alive, that's enough.

Henri chuckles, albeit the sound has lost any glee, "I know, I know, 'it wouldn't sway your feelings about me one bit.' Will you come up now? I'm sure you're hurting."

The question is simple, the answer should be too, but out of no apparent reason Adam stays where he is. Maybe, because Henri always cares too much about other people and not enough about himself or past his straightly ironed exterior.

Adam grips Henri's hands a little tighter, gritting his teeth to ignore the pain shooting right through his bones and the useless muscle tissue, "I'm fine," he lies; this is not about him right now, he can cope for a few more minutes (sweat is starting to gather on his forehead and he tries to breathe through it). "You're right, it doesn't sway my feelings about you, Henri," he says as solemnly as he can, hoping the man in front of him  _ understands _ , hoping this is not in vain. 

Henri frowns.  _ God _ , he's  _ gorgeous _ .

"What – Adam, are you okay?" He sounds a little alarmed, his accent thicker for it, and of course it reminds Adam of those early days when they both weren't tainted by this feeling, by their beating hearts and sweaty palms, when they were two almost-strangers and their meeting almost-accidental and their touches nothing but friendly.

Freedom has a way of turning things around.

"It's nothing, I'm  _fine_ – this is about you, Henri," he insists, teeth gritted and all, but he doesn't let go or stand up, it's just not an option, not right now. Not right now. 

Henri's still frowning, the line between his eyebrows deepens and their hands are starting to get sweaty; outside, the last birds are chirping. Almost mockingly.

If Adam wouldn't love Henri so much he would've dropped dead. 

That's why he needs to do this, the misery, the pain, the potential resentment; why he's clenching his teeth and breathing through his nose, why he's holding on to Henri so tight because, maybe, just maybe, like the birds flying away from the dreadful cold and their impending death, he wants to be saved. Only once in his life,  _ saved _ not spared.

"I told you all you need to know!" Henri says, and now he's somewhere between amused and offended – it's never easy to tell. 

Adam smiles, "But we both know that's not quite true." 

Henri  _ flushes _ . Almost comically right after the words have left Adam's mouth he flushes, a dark rosy color dusting his cheeks and his neck, until it's losing itself in the collar of his shirt and it's endearing; through all the pain the image sears itself onto Adam's heart to make a home there. Flustered Henri is simply adorable. 

Then, Henri breathes and then, he ducks his head and his lashes cast a delicate shadow onto his cheekbones. 

"No, it's not, you're right. And I'll tell you if you promise me to get up and stop hurting yourself."

Adam surrenders, getting up, slowly, wincing, and when he's standing eventually, Henri doesn't let go but instead offers him his arm and leads him into Adam's bedroom, where Adam falls onto his mattress relieved, and just lays still for a moment or two; panting, sweating, his muscles spasming erratically and soon, his leg goes fully numb. Only then he opens his eyes to find Henri sitting at the end of the small bed, watching him warily and wringing his hands that are laying in his lap, a picture of pure worry that, if Adam wouldn't be so selfish, would concern him but because he is there's only the loud beating of his heart because Henri  _ worries _ about  _him_.

"Come here," Adam says, swallowing down his pride and attempting a smile for the only person he has ever really cared about. Maybe it will soothe them both.

Henri hesitates, "You're better now?" and when Adam nods, he's moving forward and after a second of debate he grips Adam's clammy hand tightly, sitting down right next to him. 

Adam's smile widens.

"You've got something to tell me," he says and tries to breathe steadily; the discomfort of kneeling and the pain tormenting his leg have made him exhausted, tired, even if it's still early. He could sleep an hour or so or drink something alcoholic, something strong enough to make him forget about this.

Henri presses his lips to the back of Adam's hand, Adam's heart, the fucking traitor, stutters funnily, and he whispers, "I think you already know." 

The amount of borders crossed in the vast hours of today's morning are astounding and significant but Adam can't bring himself to care. Usually someone who prefers his personal space and every wall he put up between himself and the outside world, he lets Henri have him, have this, all of it, because he trusts Henri, because he cares for Henri, because that clumsy boy has a talent for taking down all of his carefully crafted defenses in the blink of an eye. Henri has slowly but surely worn himself under Adam's skin, into his bloodstream and past his bones and now, whenever Adam tastes blood in his mouth, it's not only his own. He's ought to be careful, he realizes, because Henri trusts him with this too. Possibly even more than Adam does.

It's probably heritage of the French.

But what does he know?

Adam holds onto him tighter, opening eyes that he had briefly closed to meet Henri's, "I want you to tell me," he says and lifts his other arm to caress the side of Henri's cheek with his hand. It's too much, as far as he can tell, but he's always been sappy when he was sick (usually there's no one around to witness except for sheets and sheets of paper filled with notes and smudged ink).

"I want you," Henri says and Adam breathes. 

Breathes and cherishes the moment.

Then, "I love you too, Henri."

And finally,  _ finally _ , Henri kisses him and it's almost desperate like he couldn't have waited another minute longer and he tastes like the strawberry jam and coffee and distinctly minty, and he smells like summer and Adam's kissing the last traces off his lips, the last hours of the morning and the last moments of resistance.

And finally, Paris is free.

 

 

** FALL. **

 

Adam watches Henri out of the corner of his eyes; how his jaw curves, how his hair, styled neatly, curls over his forehead, how the sweat gleams on skin and the color rises high on his cheekbones, how his eyebrows will draw together whenever he stumbles over a word he doesn’t understand yet. It’s intoxicating, looking at Henri.  Adam has never seen or met anyone quite as beautiful or as gorgeous as him. 

“You’re so in your thoughts today,” Henri comments, drawing Adam out of his mind, and he can’t help but smile a little despite his internal vow to never let that happen. 

“It’s ‘ _lost_ in thought’, Henri,” Adam responds naturally, fingers ghosting over the keys of his piano while his useless leg is stretched out beneath him. 

Henri huffs and walks over to him, and when he finally stands in front of Adam, effectively increasing their height difference, he almost looks like Lise whenever she’s chiding him for overworking his leg or staying up too late; or he looks exactly like he always does when Adam does something he disapproves of. And still, he’s so _goddamn_ pretty, it’s making Adam heady. 

“You’re alright?” Henri asks, frowning, and gently takes Adam’s tensed hands in his own. He’s so _soft,_ Adam can’t help but _love._

“You know how it is,” Adam shrugs, looking upwards so he can meet Henri’s worried glance, “Some days are harder than others.” 

“Is it the leg?” Henri asks, and swiftly kneels in front of him, so they’re eye to eye now, and it’s really nice, being so close, Adam can’t deny that. He remembers the first time they met, when Henri hardly spoke a word English and Adam didn’t even bother to learn French, and Henri all but stumbled into the little café clearly in an anxious rush, how he was just another rich guy in a dashing créme-coloured coat until he started to talk, until he started to _sing_ , until he reminded Adam of the beauty of living. 

“No,” Adam says, and kisses Henri, “Not really.” 

Blushing, Henri ducks his head; he’s still so shy around Adam in a way he’s never really been until they got together, so unlike the Henri who’s sharing his bed with him nightly, or who’s pressing his fingers into Adam’s skin but still, Adam loves every version of him, every shade and every fiber. 

God, he never thought he could feel so intensely, could ever love someone so fully and deeply and overwhelmingly from the first second they met; he never even believed in love per se. Jerry does, always has done, fiercely and passionately and so _American,_ and Lise is love in motion, in every step, and Henri a romantic at heart, but Adam - 

“ _Look at you_ ,” He whispers, and tilts Henri’s head upwards, “You’re all I ever wanted.”

(It wasn’t even _love._ He kind of hated Henri, because he was rich and superficial and self-obsessed and everything Adam could never be, and so _pure_ and _happy_ and _talented_ and _perfect_ and  _interested_ in whatever Adam had to offer - not much, admittedly - and glowing, the guy _radiated_ in a world that lost all of its goddamn color and he cared, he cared so much it made Adam so _sick_.)

"I love you," Henri says and smiles, sweetly and captivating and wholesome and _his_.

It's timeless.

**Author's Note:**

> Some might have already read the last scene on my tumblr and I just want to let you that it has always been written with this piece in mind. 
> 
> Hit me up on my tumblr henribrl. I love you.


End file.
